A Regular Decorated Emergency
by EmoStarlette
Summary: One week after a tragic event, April Diana Cohen reflects on the moments that have changed her life. Oneshot?


**Title:**A Regular Decorated Emergency

**Author: **EmoStarlette aka Stephanie Lynn

**Rating:** PG

**Summary: **One week after a tragic event, April Cohen reflects on the moments that have changed her life.

**Pairings:** S/S and R/M I guess, but you'll see why that doesn't quite work out...

**Setting:** Newport Beach, 2023?

**Point Of View:** April Diana Cohen, age sixteen

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One day composed of fateful actions, can spell out your entire future. Just one moment can be the difference between one reality and another. And a single decision can completely transform every fiber of your being. You can say you believe in fate, in destiny, and all that other lovely stuff, and if that satisfies you, great. I, on the other hand, am a firm believer that we are in control of our own lives. Every little thing we do is at our own hands, and there isn't one thing coming our way that we can't change. Failure to take action, however, is a whole different story. But do we have that ability? In my eyes, certainly. You're probably wondering why a girl of only sixteen years, a mere child, would have such a complex and sound philosophy, and that answer can be wrapped up in one single statement. "Some people just have tragedy in their blood" 

Optimism is one luxury I gave up a long time ago. It's not that I'm a cynical person; I've just come to terms with the truth. Life isn't all about fun and games, not for me at least. It's about pain and sacrifice, disappointment and longing. No, I'm not looking for pity, I've got stockpiles of that, nor do I need your words of hope. Self-reliance is the only way to go, especially when the people you count on seem to drop like flies.

It's ironic, it really is. Or maybe there's just a family curse I'm unaware of. Either way, I've lost almost every single person who has ever mattered to me. And as I sit here now, my eyes focused on the drifting scenery outside of my car window, the sharp hint of new tears becomes familiar once again. It's about time I stop beating around the bush, giving you senseless words that probably don't mean a thing to anyone but me. So I'll get right to the point.

The first loss hit me at the age of seven. I was swinging on the swings in my grandparent's backyard. How I adored that swing set. It was gaudy and stuck out like a sore thumb against the glitzy Newport back drop, but my grandparents didn't care about anything apart from pleasing me. They were just those kind of people; they didn't care what other's thought, about society, about expectations. They cared about things that actually mattered, like the cheeky smile I would get every time I tried to swing high enough to touch the sky with my bare feet. I was doing exactly that one spring morning, my hair in loose pigtails as I pumped my legs to bring me higher. The patio door slid open, and my aunt appeared, her mouth beginning to take shape to call my name, until she saw my face. Losing her nerve, she slipped out of the house, and made her way over. Her eyes were different…they had an unordinary vibrancy to them, and though I was only a second grader, I could identify the somber tones inside of them. Hands clasped, she padded over to the swing set, as I slowed my pace, until I was nearly at a stop. She knelt down, her mouth opening and closing a time or two, before she finally delivered the news that had been weighing down her tongue. Within seconds, I was sobbing into the shoulder of her Anna Sui dress, which happened to be my favorite. I can still picture it's white crisp lines, and vivid pattern or rustic English lilacs and regal looking swirls. Whenever she wore it, it made me imagine her on her way to a fancy British tea party, with tea that didn't taste bland or bitter, and scones that were soft enough to melt in your mouth. As I cried into the skirt of dress in the hospital waiting room, it only made me cry harder, knowing my tear streaks would ruin it. But at the same time, I knew she'd never wear it again because it would be a reminder of that day.

That of course is the memory of the day Grandpa died.

The next memory isn't much better. Fast forward three years, and you'll see what I mean. This time, it's July, the hottest summer day we'd had in decades, according to the local weatherman. He must have been right, because I can distinctly remember the feeling of my polo sticking to my back, and the annoying feeling of my dark hair escaping from my pony tail and falling onto my neck. I was in an abnormally sluggish mood, and had ended up lying on the kitchen floor in order to conserve energy. I'd just started to entertain the thought of jumping fully clothed into the pool, when the sound of my mother's kitten heels on the kitchen floor interrupted my thoughts. She hated when I did this, since according to her, the kitchen floor was the dirtiest place in the house. I awaited her scolding, but it never came, and was replaced by a quivering frown, and a hushed statement. And in the very next moment, she was lying next to me on the kitchen floor, cheek pressed against mine, as her hands grasped at me for dear life. I, on the other hand, lay there motionless, without blinking or breathing. Just…trying to decide whether I wanted to exist or disappear into thin air.

That of course is the memory of the day my Uncle died.

I guess this brings me to the most recent, and tragic, memory I've experienced yet. I remember it more than any other, not only because it happened only a week ago, but because it will forever be burned into my memory. Like a looped movie that will never end. There was a horrible fight, and being the hotheaded person that I am, I stormed off, wanting to make as big of a crash as I could. Teenagers are defensive, and retaliation is about the only thing we know. So I figured, if she was allowed to hurt me, I was allowed to do it back. Now all I can do is wonder why I'd been so maliciously angry over such a simple thing. She'd grounded me for breaking curfew that was all, yet it had seemed like the end of the world. The next morning I rolled out of bed, ignored her completely, and went off to school without ever acknowledging her presence. I spent the entire morning brushing her off, and the one regret I'll never get over is the fact that it was the only morning I ever left without saying that I loved her. School was ordinary, the same gossip, the same faces, and the same useless homework assignments. It was characteristically dull, until in the very middle of European History, the principal knocked on the door, and asked that I go with her, and bring my stuff. The class erupted in whispers, and joking ohs and ahs, but I was a model student, so I knew I had nothing to be worried about. I figured it was going to be an impromptu honor society meeting, or something that required my duties as social chair. So without concern or hesitation, I scooped up my books, and with a wave to my classmates, I left. As soon as the door had been shut behind me, the principal gave me a pitiful look, and rubbed my shoulder, keeping her mouth closed the entire time. Raising an eyebrow as we traveled down the hallway, I remember clutching my books so tightly, that my knuckles turned a pearly white, as soon as my father came into view. There was a nauseated look on his face, accompanying a ghastly pale shade. He never looked like this; I'd never seen him remotely worried before, or at least, not like this. As soon as our eyes locked, my knees buckled beneath me, followed by a disgusting thud. I didn't even associate that the noise had accompanied my fall, but it seemed like a miniscule detail. My muscles collectively began to spasm, and suddenly, I felt the need to vomit. Every inch of my skin burned, and I felt like I might possibly turn to ashes right then and there. As his arms encircled me, I felt the need to warn him that he might be badly burned if he touched me, but among other problems, my mouth had went dry. He clutched on to me, and I could tell that he was battling the need to break down. The most depressing thing in the world is to see your father fighting to be strong for you, even when his world is crashing down around him. It also came to my mind to tell him that it was okay to let it go, that it wouldn't be a letdown, but again, my vocal chords weren't in working order. It didn't matter to me that people were watching from the windows of every classroom, and that the bell was about to ring. In fact, I was more concerned by that fact that I'd be forever rooted in that spot, stuck there to waste away into oblivion. And at the moment, it didn't sound like a horrible fate.

That of course is the memory of the day Mama died.

I guess you could say my life is just a series of tragic events. First Sandy Cohen, then Ryan Atwood, and now Summer Roberts-Cohen. I must have been a horrible person in a past life. That, or I'm merely a case of bad luck. Either way, your best bet is to stay as far away as possible from April Diana Cohen. Your life may hang in the balance.

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**Authors Note:** Not sure if this is a one shot or not yet, it depends on the feedback. Just to prevent impending questions, the narrator is of course, April Diana Cohen, daughter to Summer and Seth. Any more details about her will depend on a second chapter. But again, I have yet to decide if there will be one.


End file.
